


Falling asleep

by LaurelSilver



Series: The 'other' universe [4]
Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Demisexual Character, Kidnapping, Multi, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikolai is woken up early to find Matt has gone missing. Lutz and Lorenzo are too... 'busy' to track the Canuck, leaving Nikolai to find his missing underling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
> Matt 'Canada' Williams  
> Joshua 'Alaska' Jones  
> Lorenzo 'Veneziano' Vargas  
> Lutz 'Germany' Wellschmidt  
> Matthias 'Denmark' Kohler  
> Loki 'Norway' Bondevik  
> Susan 'Sweden' Oxenstierna  
> Gilbert 'Prussia' Wellschmidt  
> Taisto 'Finland' Vainamoinen  
> Emilio 'Iceland' Steilsson  
> Alfred 'America' Jones  
> Francois 'France' Bonnefoy  
> Oliver 'England' Kirkland  
> Tonio 'Spain' Fernandez Carriedo  
> Flavio 'Romano' Vargas  
> Scottie 'Scotland' Kirkland  
> Will 'Wales' Kirkland  
> Seamus and Rhiona 'Ireland' Kirkland  
> Orlender 'Ladonia' Oxenstierna  
> Eadwine 'Kugelmugel' Edelstein

The other universe, about twenty years ago

It is still dark when I wake up, and I decide I hate February, just as I have decided every morning for the past thirteen mornings. Matt says I just hate everything. I say I just hate mornings.

I am unsure what woke me up. If it had been the usual six o’clock bell, I would be able to hear Lorenzo effing and blinding from the basement, but the house is eerily silent. Sitting upright, I peer out of the window until I can make out the time on the clock tower; half past five. This is far too early to be awake.

But, it is far too late to go back to sleep. Begrudgingly, I get up and dressed, not bothering to be quiet; if I am awake, everyone else can be awake too. I pull my sleeves down firmly, buttoning the cuff over the fading Ace of Clubs tattoo over my inner wrist. Joshua has often asked what the tattoo means, but I haven’t yet graced him with an answer.

I leave my bedroom. Matt’s bedroom door is hung open, and his boots are missing from the end of his bed. Matt has always been a restless sleeper, barely able to sleep more than two hours at a time. He often drops asleep at his desk. I often let him, pretending not to notice when he sluggishly wakes up, making loud noises to wake him should someone come into the room.

I stamp downstairs. Lorenzo yells from the basement, barely audible through the floor, and I laugh. There is a strong smell of coffee, stronger than usual, and a cold draught.

The kitchen door is hung open, the light is on. Glass litters the floor, steaming coffee still spreading slowly through the cracks in the tiles. A pan, empty, is heating on the stove and beginning to smoke. The door to the outside is also hung open.

I go through, stepping over the coffee and turning off the stove as I pass. Outside, I can’t see anybody, but piles of rubble closeby have been knocked over, and dust has been scraped through; there has obviously been a struggle, and I vaguely realise this is probably what woke me up.

I produce a ball of light and scout it around. Matt seems to have put up a fairly good fight; the circumference of the struggle area is a good few yards around the kitchen door. But he seems to have lost in the end. I search for marks in the dust to show where he’d been dragged to, or some footprints, but I can’t find either. Whoever had grabbed him had been careful to leave no trace of themselves.

I storm back inside. I don't like being woken up, and being woken up by someone kidnapping my underling doesn't sweeten that. Today is taking a turn for the shitty.

"Lutz!" I shout in the hallway. The German makes some guttural shout in response. "Have you seen Matt?"

Lutz shouts again, but I can't work out whatever the lazy soldier's saying and stomp down into the basement. Lorenzo shrieks as I walk in, diving out of Lutz's lap to cover himself up. Lutz makes no move to cover himself, staring dumbly at me, and it is ridiculously obvious what the pair had been up to.

"I suppose you haven't seen him, then," I say plainly, careful to look no lower than Lutz's face.

"Seen who?" is his response.

I want to punch him, but I'd feel weird punching a naked man. "Matt."

"Oh. No. Only seen Lorenzo today. And you, obviously. Why, is he missing?"

"I wouldn't be looking for him if I knew where he was."

"Are you sure he hasn't gone to the library?" Lorenzo asks, finally shoving some blanket up to Lutz's waist, "He fucking loves books. I wouldn't be surprised if he spends today there."

"He's not allowed to be in the library. He needs to be in the office, with me."

"Ve~" Lorenzo grins, and Lutz sniggers.

"Keep your dirty stupidity to yourself," I snap, "Clean yourselves up."

"Later, Boss," Lutz answers as I turn to leave, and Lorenzo smacks him on the shoulder.

* * *

 

The Library at the opposite side of the community is a huge building of multiple sections what used to yellow and white bricks, but after almost two centuries of going uncleaned it has become black with dust and muck. The huge steps probably used to be full of locals and tourists, but are now desolate, broken, and perilous to run up and down. The only people who come here now are Matthias, Loki and Susan to find Matthias, and Matt in his spare time. Gilbert used to, and a drawing he etched into the wood of the door of the Prussian Eagle is still there, unfixed.

I open the door, and it creaks loudly. Matthias is not behind the desk as he usually is, but a half-drunk bottle of beer sits on the desktop, meaning Matthias is here somewhere.

"Matt?" I shout.

A thud to my left. Matthias creeps out from behind a bookshelf, a copy of The Borrowers in his hands. His hair is flat and thin, his clothes have faded to pink and grey, the ex-Viking's toned figure wasted down into a hollow bag of bones barely holding together. "I thought you were Loki."

"Do I look anything like Loki?" I snap. "Have you seen Matt?"

"Not today, no. Not for about a week. He didn't leave you a note or anything?"

"No. Because he was kidnapped," I remember, and smack a hand to my forehead.

"You forgot he was kidnapped?"

"I... There was a naked German and everything was just weird!"

A ghost of an old grin pulls at Matthias's mouth, "That impressive?"

I resist the urge to punch him in the face. He'd probably break, then I'd have Susan, Taisto and Emilio on my back, and there is no amount of alcohol to get me drunk enough to deal with all three of them at once.

"But who even would kidnap Matt?" Matthias wonders aloud, "He doesn't really have enemies, except Al but he's nowhere near forward-thinking enough to kidnap someone. You don't really have enemies, aside from a few people with grudges against you because of the Wars, but none of them that I can think of would go as far as to kidnap Matt, especially with your temper."

"What temper?" I snap.

Matthias pauses, but doesn't answer. "Could be an enemy of François or Oliver."

"Tonio!" I yell.

"Really? I would have thought he'd be a bit... preoccupied."

"Preoccupied? He's only the treasurer."

Matthias stares at me. "You have no idea what day it is today, do you?"

"It's February, and that's all I know." I stopped caring about the date several years. Lorenzo insists on telling me the turn of every month.

"And what happens in February?"

"International Duties Memorial?" I guess.

"And what else?"

"Defender of the Fatherland Day?"

"And what else?"

"Maslenitsa? Sometimes..."

"Valentines Day!" Matthias snaps.

"We still celebrate that bullshit?"

"You still celebrate Defender of the Fatherland Day?"

"Of course. I love celebrating the fact my people were better than everyone else's."

Matthias raises his eyebrows at me. "Just go find Matt."

* * *

 

I leave the library. Tonio and Flavio live in a house across from the Main House I live in with Matt, Lutz and Lorenzo, making it easy for Tonio to grab Matt and drag him away, then clean up after himself. I really should have thought of it sooner. No matter; a punch to the face is the least Tonio will be receiving.

I don't notice Scottie until I almost fall over him. The Celt is on the floor,dragging himself through the dirt, both his legs are cut off below the knee and still bleeding.

"What are you doing?" I demand, dragging the man into a sitting position, pulling what's left of his trousers up to check the wounds. The flesh is ragged and red, his bone is visible, his muscles are swollen and useless. As seconds pass, the bleeding slows down and bone begins to stretch itself, healing Scottie slowly and probably painfully.

I sit opposite the Celt, and repeat the question; "What are you doing?"

"I was headed to the kids' dorms," Scottie pants, "I was gonna tell them stories."

"Why isn't Will with you?"

"Oliver got him. Wanted to cook something nice for Franny, he said. Drained Will and the twins dry, and hacked my legs off. Matt picked the lock so-"

"Matt? You've seen Matt?" I interrupt.

"Aye. Franny and Oliver dragged him in this morning, completely sedated. He woke up, realised where he was, and unpicked the lock on me. Oliver arrived before he could unpick himself, though."

"And you didn't think to come report this?"

"Who do I report it to?"

"Me."

"Not allowed in the Main House, and I can't go shouting up at you, especially if Oliver realises I'm gone."

I glare at him. He's completely right. We need a better issue-reporting system. Maybe assign that to Scottie and Will; get them both away from Oliver.

With a sigh, I let some of my scarf unravel and scoop up Scottie, hoisting him into the air as I stand up. I settle him on my back, his arms around my neck, holding him above the knees with my hands, my scarf still wrapped around his torso to support him. Blood soaks into the back and sleeves of my shirt but I've had larger amounts of blood on me in worse situations, so I don't make any overt acknowledgement.

The kids' dorm is in the clock tower. A few decades ago, the 'children' built a pulley-lift system for Scottie, the Celt going to the clock tower whenever he can to tell stories, but he is often too weak for the stairs. The first few attempts to build and manoeuvre the system had ended terribly, but Scottie had encouraged them, and eventually Lutz and Matt pulled together some of the other nations to help build the lift, little more than wood and rope that still breaks sometimes.

I set Scottie on the floor of the lift, the wood already stained with old blood. Scottie doesn't seem worried about it. By now about an inch of bone sticks out of each severed shin.

"Would you like a blanket?" I ask.

Scottie huffs a pained laugh. "They've seen me in worse conditions. I think they'll be fine."

I reach over the ring the bell, set up for Will to ring to alert the 'children' of their presence. I freeze as footsteps thud above me.

Joshua comes dashing down the stairs, and grins widely when he sees me. His grin is toothy, American, and he's a little chubby like Al, with the same dark, messy hair and too-big eyes. Matt jokes that Joshua has my nose, but I don't see it at all.

"I thought I heard you!" Joshua hollers, accent thickly American.

"Yes, yes, I brought Scottie," I answer.

"Scottie?" Joshua's face lights up, and he yells up the stairs; "Hey, guys! Scottie's here!"

Twittering of voices from above us, and the lift shakily begins its descent. Scottie chuckles at the greetings, smiling warmly up at the children.

I turn to leave, but a small hand grabs at my wrist. "Tell me about the tattoo."

"No," I say shortly. I push him away by the head, but he holds on to my wrist and jumps, hooking his legs around my upper arm and swinging from me like a monkey. "Let go of me."

"Not until you tell me."

"You are somehow more annoying than your father."

"It's an art form. Like tattoos."

I sigh. "Fine. Get off my arm, and I will tell you."

Joshua cheers. He jumps down, not letting go of my wrist as he unfastens the cuff of my shirt and shoves it up, revealing the tattoo among the sleeve of fading Russian gang symbols and sunflowers.

"The Ace of Clubs," I point to the A and three-circled symbol just below my wrist, "Is the symbol used by people with the same... sexuality as me to express it in a subtle way. Like a gang tattoo, but with hopefully less crime."

"I thought the gays had rainbows," Joshua says plainly.

I stare at him. "I'm not gay."

"I thought you were dating Matt."

"No."

"Huh," Joshua frowns, "But you’re so much nicer to him than to everyone else.”

“That’s because he’s competent and doesn’t annoy me.”

Joshua stares at me, expression difficult to read. Matt once said that Joshua gets that skill from me, and I am perfectly happy to take the credit for the trait. “So… what does the Ace of Clubs symbolise?”

“Demi-sexuality.”

“Huh.” Joshua furrows his brows. “Örlender has mentioned demi-gods before,” he thinks aloud; definitely a trait from Al, “Which are... almost gods, but... not quite. And Eadwine has talked about demi-semi-quavers, which are... ridiculously short notes. So ‘demi’ means… little? Little-sexuality? Like… you’re not attracted to many people? Or dwarves?”

“The first one. Sort of. I have to know the person really well before I am attracted to them.”

“So… like you know Matt really well?”

“Yes, I do know Matt really well. But I am not attracted to him.”

“Were you attracted to Dad?”

“No. He’s an idiot. You weren’t born conventionally; remember that.”

Joshua nods. “Welp, that’s one mystery solved.”

“Come on Joshua!” a Germanic-sounding voice, so probably Eadwine, shouts, “Scottie’s gonna tell the story about the Moving Castle again!”

“Gotta go; it one of my favourites!” Joshua runs up the stairs, waving back to me, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. Such an American.

* * *

 

I knock on the front door to Oliver’s home. A few seconds pass, a series of thuds, and the door opens to Al’s stupid, grinning face. I really want to punch him, but I get the feeling Oliver would get very upset, and that could make it more difficult for me to get Matt back.

“Yo, Ruski! What’re ya doing here?” Al asks. He leans further out of the door, and I notice a metallic collar fastened tightly around his neck, the wide front sitting snugly just above his collar bones. Blood has dried just under it, and more dribbles out as he speaks.

“I’m looking for Matt,” I answer.

“Are ya?” Al’s grin thins into smirk, “What’s ya need him for?”

“He has work to do.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Plans to memorise, idiots to relay messages to, maps to annotate; the usual. I have reason to believe he’s here.”

“Do ya now? That reason wouldn’t happen to involve our Scottie, would it?”

“There are very few people who would kidnap Matt. It was simply a matter of deduction.”

“Ooh, check out Sherlock-ski Holmes-ski here!”

“Are you being a bother, Allan?” a voice, chirpy and Cockney, calls.”

“Al, my name is Al,” Al whines, “Alfred if you gotta, but definitely not Allan!”

“Nikolai, sweetheart!” Oliver gushes, shoving past Al to grab my wrist and drag me inside, “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“He’s here for Matt,” Al says, closing the door behind him, “Important day for couples, ya know.”

“We are not a couple,” I say firmly, “I simply don’t appreciate my underling being kidnapped in the early hours of the morning.”

“Oh, I do apologise. I’ll give you forewarning next time.” By this time, Oliver has lead me to the living room, directing me to an armchair.

Al sits in the other armchair. A three-person sofa sits opposite. François sits nearest Al, smoking a cigarette. A collar, similar to Al’s but slightly cruder in cut, cradles his throat, the unsmoothed edges often nicking the skin of his neck and collar as he move his head around. Matt sits at the end nearest me, toying with a loose string of his shirt. His jacket is missing, probably still back at Main House. Instead of the collars Al and François wear, a chain has been padlocked around his neck, and I follow the metal links with my eyes to a heavy iron ring bolted to the floor by the end of the sofa.

“Cupcakes?” Oliver offers, appearing from the kitchen with a large plate.

Matt takes one, and I follow suit. The icing is purple with a black fondant flower. François takes a cake, biting into it without a thought, so used to the Brit’s baking he probably stopped caring what’s in it several decades ago.

Oliver holds the plate out to Al. Al throws a look of disgust at the gory ‘treats’, looks Oliver up and down, and scoffs openly. “Fuck off,” he spits, “I ain’t eatin’ that shit.”

Oliver freezes. Matt winces, and François just sighs. The tray of cupcakes drops to the floor with a bang, the sweets scattering at Oliver’s feet.

“There was no need for that, poppet,” Oliver says quietly.

“There was every fuckin’ need for that,” Al retorts, “Ya kidnap me at fuck-knows-what time this mornin’, drag me here, an’ try to feed me my own uncles, even though ya know I’m vegan. You’re an ass. An’ a psycho one at that.”

The house is eerily silent for several long seconds. The quiet is broken by Oliver’s clothes rustling as he shoves a hand in the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a small remote.

“You had to,” François sighs.

“I hadda what?” Al asks dumbly.

Oliver presses the remote’s single button, and the collar around Al’s neck clicks. Almost instantly Al gips, throwing his head back, hands flying to the collar. It clicks again, unfastening, and it falls away into Al’s hands. A deep gash is open in his throat, blood spurting out erratically, Al gurgling as blood fills his lungs and windpipe.

It takes almost a full minute for him to die, Matt and I simply staring, myself in a mixture of shock, amusement and curiosity. Matt’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide in alarm, cupcake dropped icing-down on the floor. And finally, Al slumps down in the chair, blood soaking the fabric, and the collar clatters to the floor.

“What just happened?” I ask.

“I invented it!” Oliver chirps, his anger melting away. Al’s blood has sprayed over his face, almost completely covering his jaw and nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“What is it?” I ask.

Oliver picks up the collar, bringing it closer to me. “Look; it has these two hooks,” he points to the hooks, facing each others like pincers, “They go either side of the windpipe,” he pushes them apart, each one clicking and holding open, “And when I press the button,” he presses the button again and the hooks close, the sharp ends fitting snugly into two holes at the front of the collar that I hadn’t noticed, “Severing the windpipe and a couple of arteries instantly. This one is Al’s; extra-strong alloy I’ve got here. François’s is the first one I made, and I haven’t got round to making some for the rest of my lovelies. I want them to be personalised, you see, and that’s a bit of a struggle. Oh! Maybe you can help me!”

“I can?” I asks, still toying with the collar.

“Yes. I simply don’t know what to do with Matt’s, and you know him very well-”

“Matt’s what?”

Oliver blinks at me, startled and slightly annoyed, before his blood-stained face settles back into it’s friendly grin, “Collar, of course.”

“Why would you put a collar on my underling?” I says shortly.

“What?” Oliver asks, forcibly polite, “Matt is my little dear,” he hugs Matt’s head protectively, “He needs to stay here, where I can look after him and brush his hair and give him lots of sweets, and away from meanies like you.”

“‘Meanies like me’?” I echo.

“Yes. Always bossing people around and setting rules and fixing roles. Meanie.”

“Forgive me for assuming a leadership role,” I say flatly, “There is no need to collar Matt. He is perfectly well-behaved, as well as perfectly capable of looking after himself.”

“But,” Oliver pouts, “He’s my little baby.”

“So is Al, and you just ripped his throat out.”

Oliver stares at me, still clutching Matt’s head to his chest. Matt just leans there, hands hanging limply by his side, the Canuck seeming to have accepted his situation. François tuts, drives his cigarette butt into an ashtray on the middle, otherwise empty cushion, and stands up, putting his hands gently on Oliver’s upper arms.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, lapin,” he says gently.

Oliver shakily lets go of Matt, “Cleaned up?”

“Yes, lapin, you’ve got blood on your face.” François pats Oliver on the hand, his other hand slipping discreetly into the Brit’s pocket.

Oliver’s fingers go to his cheek and pull away crimson. “Oh, so I do.” He puts the fingers idly in his mouth, then away with an expression of disgust. “It’s so bitter.”

“I know, lapin,” François coos, pushing Oliver gently towards the kitchen, before turning and hissing over his shoulder; “The alloy can break metal.” He throws the remote to Matt and ushers Oliver to the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.

I quickly push the hooks of the collar down, pressing them until they click into place. I then organise the chain in between them, the links about half the size of the gap between them. I nod to Matt, and he presses the button. The hooks closed, the metal link breaking with a loud snap.

We both freeze for a second. There is only the sound of water running from the kitchen, and then a soft clatter as I let the chain fall to the floor.

Matt scurries out of the door into the hallway, opening the front door as quietly as he can. I follow him, pausing only to punch Al in the face before I leave.

* * *

 

Back home at the Main House, the coffee has been cleaned up, and whoever cleaned it up went straight, or gay, back to the basement, Lutz and Lorenzo making no effort to be quiet. Matt follows me to the office, and I cast a quick soundproofing charm to block the couple out.

“Carry on with memorising the plans,” I order dully.

Matt takes his seat, a large chair at the end of my desk, without a word, picking up his book and glasses from the desk. I sit in my own chair, one that used to swivel but unfortunately has rusted into a fixed place, and look over my notes on the roles of the community members.

* * *

 

Hours pass. Oliver doesn’t turn up, probably admitting defeat after losing Matt. Loki wanders past at around two in the afternoon, bleating for Matthias. I call to him that I’d seen Matthias near Tonio’s house, and the Norwegian, dressed far too skimpily than I am comfortable with seeing him, wanders off. Lutz pads in, dressed lazily in a shirt and boxers to my gratitude, at around three with two large bowl of pasta, an almost overflowing jug of coffee, and a satisfied grin. He puts the tray of food on the desk and leaves, and Matt and I eat in silence. Matt fills his mug with coffee, and I pass him some packeted sugar, which he accepts with a quiet “thanks”.

At five, Matt falls asleep, curled up in his chair. I slip out, ignoring the sounds from the basement as I sneak into the kitchen.

I use magic to make the fridge levitate. Under the fridge there are a series of loose floorboards, hiding a cooler box set into the floor about two centuries ago. Inside the cooler box is the stash of chocolate, sweets and maple syrup, hidden from Matt, not only for his health but for his loyalty and obedience.

I pick out three bars of chocolate and a medium-sized bottle of syrup, checking it’s Canadian authenticity and the seal. The bottle is undamaged, the syrup is still gold, and Matt has never complained about off-tasting syrup or sweets before, so I assume it’s still good enough.

I sneak upstairs, treading lightly on the steps. I put the bars and the bottle on Matt’s pillow and sneak back downstairs and into the office. Matt hasn’t stirred, and I leave him to sleep.

He sleeps for about an hour and a half before he yawns awake and continues reading, often mumbling under his breath.

As the clock tower chimes nine, Matt stands up, stretching. “I’m gonna go to bed, Boss. Been a bit of a mad day.”

“Fine,” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. Matt walks out, closing the door behind him.

I sit for about ten minutes, finishing re-allocating Seamus, Rhiona and Will into reporting roles, and Scottie into a supervising, specifically of the ‘children’, role. I’ll send Lorenzo with the news tomorrow.

I wander upstairs, yawning. I don’t like being woken up early.

In my room, I take off my scarf and fold it up in my hands, the wool coarse and dense against my fingers. I stare blankly, the addition to my room taking several seconds to register. On my pillow sits a bottle of vodka, the label blue with silver Cyrillic lettering.

I drop my scarf and snatch the bottle up, turning it around in my hands and reading the label carefully. Proper Russian vodka, bottled in St Petersburg two hundred and fifty years ago, labelled twelve units but two and a half centuries of sitting around wherever it was hidden will have refined and distilled it. I haven’t had proper Russian vodka in far too long.

I turn the lid, and the seal breaks with a satisfying crack. I take a sip, and the liquid burns my throat as it goes down, stronger than anything I have any memory of drinking. I smile a little dizzily, swilling the clear liquid around the bottle.

I wander out of my room, stopping at Matt’s door and knocking. Matt answers with a muffled grunt, and I open the door.

“Vodka?” I offer, holding the bottle up.

Matt isn’t surprised to see the bottle. Probably for the same reason I’m not surprised to see the half-eaten chocolate bar in his hands. He stares for a few seconds before he gulps his mouthful of chocolate down and answers; “Sure. Chocolate?” he holds one of the bars out to me.

I pause, and realise the reason Matt paused was out of shock. I do not share vodka, especially not good-quality vodka, and Matt does not share sweets. “Sure.”

I sit on his bed next to him, taking the chocolate bar and letting Matt take the vodka. He takes a large swig, choking on its burn, and I laugh as I unwrap the chocolate.

Sometime around ten, Matt falls asleep leant on my shoulders. Too tired to move, I lean back against him and drift off, chocolate wrapper scrunched in my hand.

I am woken by the Lorenzo swearing at the six am bell. Matt is still asleep on my shoulder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The story about the moving castle refers to Howl's Moving Castle  
> Oliver has suppressed memory problems, and he often forgets things  
> Matt is addicted to sweet things


End file.
